Tales from Arkham
by The Hutt
Summary: What happens after Batman hauls in one of the notorious supervillians of Gotham city? Go inside the imposing asylum and witness the strange occurances that happen there. Rated T for violence.
1. Up on the Housetop

**Up on the Housetop**

"Tell, me, what is black, egotistical, flies a short distance, then drops to the ground in a ball of flame?" came the voice from the dark silhouette atop the adjacent building. After a moment without Batman responding, the Riddler's face fell. "Come now, you don't have a guess? Fine, then, I'll tell you!"

Batman didn't give his foe the chance, though. He leapt across the gap between the two apartment buildings, his cape snapping taut and slowing him to glide with ease. He was about halfway across when a bright flash cut through the darkness, and a gleaming object lanced outward from the shadowy form. The projectile tore through Batman's fanned out cape, burning a large hole in the fabric. Instantly, Batman dropped downward.

The Riddler skipped over to the edge of the building, giggling merrily to himself. "The answer to my riddle: YOU! Haha!" He paused in his revelry and returned to his more demure persona. "Now I see that you aren't very good at riddles, so let's try something else…" With a flourish, the Riddler extracted what appeared to be a Rubik's cube from within his green question mark emblazoned suit and twisted the central section so that each face bore its own color. Then, he gingerly dropped it into the alley between the two buildings.

There was a few second delay, and then a massive explosion wracked the brick chasm. "It appears that you're just as bad with puzzles, my dear!" the Riddler said with glee. He peered over the lip of the rooftop in hopes of spotting his victim.

Suddenly, there was a flash of black in front of the Riddler's face. He spun around in surprise as the Batman landed nimbly behind him. "How?" he screamed.

"Enough of your games!" Batman snarled in his throaty altered voice. He socked his enemy in the face with a gauntleted fist, causing the criminal's head to jerk back and strike the concrete rim around the roof violently.

"Try one of these out!" the dazed Riddler cackled. Before the Dark Knight could punch him again, he ducked under the tattered cape, rolled over, and cast a pair of six-sided dice onto the pavement at Batman's feet. Knowing instantly what this meant, the vigilante dove to the side.

"Hahahahahahahahahaha!" cackled the Riddler, getting up off the pavement. "You're so jumpy, my dear. Why so skittish? They landed on twos, after all!"

"I said _enough games!_" Batman bellowed, delivering a powerful kick to the madman's chest.

The Riddler flew back, crashing into a protruding vent. He rose, clutching his side, but was promptly flung back onto the ground by another blow from the enraged crusader.

"Had enough yet?" he growled.

"That's a matter of—" the Riddler began, but he was suddenly cast aside. He flipped over the vent, bounced against the short concrete wall, and tumbled over the edge.

"Great," muttered Batman. He dashed to the rim of the square roof and dove over the side. He soared downward, performed a graceful front flip, caught the Riddler, and landed on his feet atop the hood of a car below, breaking out the glass in the front windshield and setting off the car alarm.

The Riddler looked up at his nemesis, smiled coldly, and said, "Tell me, what goes _beep-beep, vroom, rrt, kaboom?_"

Batman hesitated for a moment, and then suddenly bounded off the parked car. He rolled onto the street, causing a passing motorcyclist to swerve out of control in his attempt to avoid a collision. He sped away into the darkness as the car alarm stopped. Just as Batman, dragging his foe, crouched behind another parked vehicle, the automobile exploded in a furious ball of flame.

"Ah, so you're not hopeless at riddles!" the Riddler remarked nonchalantly.

"Shut up," snapped the Batman, retrieving a set of handcuffs from his utility belt.

**Author's Note—Thank you very much for reading, and please review. Check back shortly for the continuation of the Riddler's exploits.**


	2. Cellmates

**This chapter is dedicated to the late actor Heath Ledger (1979 -2008) and his outstanding performance as the Joker in _The Dark Knight_.**

* * *

Cellmates

"You there, guard!" called Arkham's Doctor Melbourne. "Come here, I need you to help relocate an inmate—I mean, a _patient_."

The guard jogged up and joined the doctor and two other sentinels. "Who is it we're moving?" he asked.

"Our dear friend the Joker," Doctor Melbourne replied. "He'll be going into Cell 12-B."

"Um, but, sir, that's the Scarecrow's cell!" the guard exclaimed.

"I know that," doctor replied coolly. "You don't honestly think I'd put the Joker in with another patient, do you?" He smirked at the relieved guard. "No, we'll have to move Mr. Crane as well. He_ will_ be sharing a room. The Batman just dragged Riddler back here."

"Why don't you just put the Riddler in Cell 12-B and not even bother with the Joker?"

"Because 12-B is smaller, and the federal inspectors would be all over us if we put two mentally ill people in that tiny of a space. The Riddler and Scarecrow aren't that unpredictable, so they'll be fine together. The Scarecrow hardly talks at all, anyway. We've had to decrease the frequency of his therapy sessions because all he does is bury his face in his hands and mumble insanely about invisible monsters trying to dismember him. The Riddler, on the other hand, could talk to himself for hours and not get bored. They're a perfect match for each other."

"Here's 7-A," said one of the other guards, a massive man with a deep, imposing voice. He brought a large hand to his belt and selected the proper key, which looked tiny in his meaty fist. Then, he inserted it into the hefty lock and turned it.

"Do not worry, doctor," whispered the third guard. "We made sure there was a mild sedative in his breakfast this morning."

Sure enough, when the door was opened, Joker was lying on his back, his hands folded over his chest. In fact, he looked dead. Because of the instable state of the patients/prisoners, an orange jumpsuit was not required. Joker was garbed in a dingy white dress shirt and a custom-tailored violet vest. The green had barely been removed from his hair, and even though the white makeup had been washed from his face long ago, it did little to alter his pale complexion. He wore a permanent smile, for where the corners of his mouth had once been he had large, curved scars.

"Is he asleep?" whispered Doctor Melbourne.

"I think so…" a guard replied, listening to the shallow breathing coming from the far corner. "Bring in the shackles and muzzle." Stepping oh so quietly, the group advanced on the patient.

The medium-sized guard reached out and carefully made to clamp the manacles about the Joker's wrists. He almost had them on when the man they had presumed asleep lurched forward and wrapped his hands around the guard's throat. The Arkham worker gasped and fell backwards onto the stone floor, dropping the chains.

The dim cell was suddenly filled with the echoing giggling of the madman. The other guards rushed forward, tazers drawn. "I got this!" bellowed the hulking one, foregoing the stun weapon and instead tackling the Joker. They rolled away from the sentry in peril, allowing him to crawl away from the bunk to safety.

"Aah!" the large man shrieked as the Joker bit down forcefully on his forearm. "Taze this madman! Taze him!"

_Zock! Zock! _Two pairs of darts flew across the brick chamber and stabbed the patient, who went rigid and collapsed to the floor. He was promptly shackled and muzzled. When he regained his muscle control, he went limp and looked up at his captors in an attempt to look like a downtrodden toddler. It was an eerie sight.

After the trio of guards had the Joker safely locked away at the end of the adjacent hallway, they returned to bring in Scarecrow. He only required handcuffs because of his disheveled physical state and his low threat level. However, the sight of him muttering and shaking his head vigorously was thoroughly unsettling. The violent explosions of movement sent his long, shaggy brown hair flapping in a nimbus about his face, which had thick streams of tears perpetually coursing down to leave a field of dots on his navy blue sport coat, which is what he was arrested in after the Batman turned his fear toxin on him. The high doses he received during the fight left him like this; no one envied him.

Next came the Riddler, who was definitely more sane that the Joker or Scarecrow, but for this reason quite dangerous. He was cool and casual as he was processed and led into 7-A. "Um, excuse me, but I believe this room is taken," he commented, seeing the Scarecrow asleep on the bunk where the Joker had previously lain.

"This is a two-bunk cell. Have a nice stay," grunted the guard, shoving the patient inside and locking the door securely behind him.

"I'll be seeing you, then," called the Riddler cheerfully.

Unnerved but trying to hide it, the guard stomped off.

"Well," sighed Riddler, looking disdainfully at his new roommate. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

The only response Riddler got was a long snore. Suddenly, a wicked smile crossed his face. He stepped gingerly over to the occupied bunk and leaned close to Scarecrow's blotchy face. "Boo!" he whispered loudly.

Instantaneously, Scarecrow leapt up, shrieking as if he were in a tornado. He flailed about, ultimately flipping off the insufficient mattress onto the floor.

The Riddler laughed coldly. "I think we're going to get along just fine…"

* * *

**AN—Well, that certainly was a strange chapter to write, and I can only imagine what it is like to read it. Regardless, I thank you for having the courage to do so, and ask that you please take the time to give input, suggestions, and comments. Thanks again!**


	3. Getting Along Just Fine

**AN—I would like to explain that this story follows the events of the _Batman Begins_ and _The Dark Knight_ movies. With that said, I hope you enjoy the third chapter of _Tales from Arkham_!**

**Getting Along Just Fine**

"Excuse me, sir, but there's a fly in my soup."

"Do I look like I care?" grunted the worker who had just brought the occupants of 7-A their lunches.

"Come now, aren't you curious what it's doing there?" said the Riddler from behind the thick iron bars.

"Um… sure, what's it doing there?" mumbled the worker, sorting through the bowls on his cart. He couldn't give a damn about the fly.

"The backstroke!" exclaimed Riddler, laughing uproariously.

"Great… now we've got two jesters in the joint…"

"Ah! Alliteration, that's quite clever. You've got all the makings of a successful sidekick!"

"Yeah, how about I give you my business card and you call me when you need me, all right?" said the worker.

"Oh, stop tormenting the patients, Ralph," said an unseen man. Riddler pressed his face against the bars to try and get a look at the speaker. "It's not polite to toy with their unstable minds…"

"You hear that, Scarecrow?" Riddler called into the depths of the cell. "They called your mind unstable!"

"Tiny things creeping around my cell last night… Going to strangle me and slit my carotid artery wide open. Spill my blood all over the floor..." muttered the other patient, erupting into quick spasms.

"Excuse me, Doctor Melbourne, we have a situation in 12-B," said another unknown speaker.

"Uh oh!" cried the doctor. "Well, I suppose we should make haste then!" With that, the two men came into Riddler's view as they raced down the hallway to deal with the 'situation.'

"He's been doing this with increasing frequency," said the guard when they had arrived at 12-B.

"Dear God!" Melbourne exclaimed.

There, crouched by the wall of his cell, was the Joker, rhythmically beating his forehead against the bricks. "Has no one thought to stop him?" shouted Melbourne, turning on the two guards who had just run up to join him.

"Well, frankly, sir, we're a bit concerned about what he'd do if we interjected, so we thought we'd just—"

"Just what? Let him bash his brains in?" said the doctor incredulously. "This is a medical mystery, you buffoons, and by keeping him alive long enough to study how his mind functions, we may save lives in the future! Someone get in there and get him out! We'll move him into a padded cell right away!"

"Yes, sir," said a guard, hunting for the right key.

Just as the door ground open, Joker ceased his horrific actions and collapsed onto his back, laughing insanely. "Aw, finally the negligent parent comes to see what's the matter with their little one! Haha! Come to break up his good-humored fun!"

"There's nothing good about your humor," spat Dr. Melbourne as the guards shackled and dragged away the laughing lunatic.

"Have I told you how I got these scars?" asked Joker, looking up at his captors.

"Yes, you have…" said one of the guards without looking at him. "Many times."

* * *

"What do you make of that man?" asked Dr. Wilson in the lounge later that day.

"What do you mean?" asked Melbourne, sipping coffee from a chipped ceramic mug.

"I think you know."

The elder of the two doctors sighed and placed his cup on the card table nearby. "The Joker is an austere specimen. Sometimes he acts like a child, trying to get attention by doing strange things. Rest assured, we're not giving him what he wants; the only reason we relocated him to a padded, windowless cell is to eliminate some of his excuses for not giving us any straight answers. We'll start an intensive series of studies with him. What you should be worrying about are your two new patients, the Scarecrow and Riddler. What do you make of _them, _hm?"

Now it was Wilson's turn to sigh and stare off into space. "I don't quite understand either of them."

"Can we truly understand any of the people the Batman brings to our doors?" inquired Melbourne.

"Well, some of them _do _make sense. For example, the Penguin is narcissistic and a kleptomaniac. Bane's mind has been warped and brought out his violent tendencies to an extreme degree because of the experimental steroids those corrupt scientists pumped him full of."

"And the Riddler is…?" urged Melbourne.

"I think he might not suffer from any specific mental disorder. I think he just has a killing mindset."

"But what about the two personas you mentioned the other day?"

"Well, that is an issue…" Wilson pondered. "I just can't pinpoint the cause! It could be a split-personality disorder, or maybe he's bipolar… I just don't get him. He's too smart to be insane, but he can suddenly change into… into…"

"They're a lot the same, aren't they?"

Wilson snapped out of his speculation and scowled. "Who is?"

"The Riddler and the Joker, of course!" Melbourne exclaimed. "Maybe by studying Riddler, we can learn more about _my_ troublesome patient!"

"Why can't I learn from yours?" Wilson retorted.

"Because, unlike my patient, the Riddler doesn't try to strangle everyone who comes near his cell!" Dr. Melbourne said with finality. "Now, what about Scarecrow?"

"Why doesn't anyone around here use patients' real names?" Wilson said, ignoring the question.

"Because," Melbourne said as if it were perfectly obvious, "the people who come here are no longer who they were when they were born. They have adopted these alter egos, and fully become different people. That's how corrupt their minds are, and _that's _why we have to hold them and analyze them. Now, back to my question…"

"Well, Scarecrow is quite the wreck. We've analyzed his actions over the course of an hour recently, and it appears that he suffers from a litany of illnesses and disorders, from paranoia to Tourette's syndrome."

"Isn't Tourette's a familial neurological disorder, though?"

"Yes, it is, which is why I considered placing that head thing he does with PTSD."

"You mean, from his fight with Batman?" Melbourne asked. "You may have a point there… the vigilante can be a bit… excessive in his punishments."

"Combined with all of that fear toxin he inhaled when his base blew up…"

"Doesn't that dissipate eventually, though?" the elder doctor said, shocked. "Surely, he can't still be hallucinating!"

"He's not. We've asked him over and over about what he sees. One time, we put him into a shadowy room filled with misshapen sculptures to see what would go through his head. We had him hooked up to a brain-wave monitor."

"What happened?"

"He was instantly over stimulated. That's the thing; his paranoia is so intense that he can't comprehend his surroundings unless he feels perfectly safe."

"What makes him feel safe, then?" Melbourne asked, becoming increasingly fascinated by his colleague's experiment.

"We tried two things," Dr. Wilson continued. "First, we turned the lights on. That didn't seem to help. He could see quite clearly, but he still shrank in fear, muttering happy things to himself, such as his favorite animal, color, and number. Over and over. Very peculiar, but at least he's consistent. He always says dog, blue, six."

"I've seen that before. Slightly rare, but not exclusive. What was the other variable?"

At this point, Wilson shifted nervously, folding his hands on the table and looking downward. "We gave him back his mask."

"You kept that thing?"

"Believe it or not, when I called up Commissioner Gordon, he was able to bring me the old tattered burlap sack. And you know what? As soon as he was looking through the ragged eyeholes and breathing through the sown-shut mouth, which was stained with a smattering of dried blood from Batman breaking his nose, he became alert, calm, and calculating. In fact, he almost escaped from the guards in the room. He got a hold of one of their handguns and got off three shots before they subdued him and got him into a straightjacket."

"Astounding! It appears that not only does he have post-traumatic stress disorder, but the opposite also… he is comforted by specific empowering memories. Good work, Wilson. I'll be looking forward to further developments with those two."

"Thank you, sir."

* * *

**AN—Thank you for reading, and please review! I love hearing what you think, and suggestions are, as always, very welcome!**

* * *


	4. Riddles in the Dark

**AN—Yes, yes, I know that I st—ahem—'borrowed' this chapter's title from Tolkien's **_**The Hobbit**_**, but I think it suits the events of this section quite nicely. Anyway, enjoy Chapter 4: Riddles In the Dark…**

* * *

**_Riddles In the Dark_**

"A pure white chest with no key nor lid, yet golden treasure inside is hid. What is it?"

"What?" came the echoing reply. The Riddler squinted, trying to make out the face of his cellmate, who was seated on the bunk in the damp, dark corner. It was the point farthest from the bars and, for that matter, the light from the hall.

"It's a riddle," he said. "You know, like a puzzle?"

"Oh…" said the figure of Jonathan Crane. Then, his shoulders fell, his head rolled forward, and he intertwined his fingers contemplatively.

The Riddler watched the other patient with indefinite curiosity. This fellow intrigued him greatly. The man's narrow shoulders rose and fell heavily, and every once and a while, he would suddenly shake his head vigorously from side to side.

Crane looked up abruptly. "An egg!" he exclaimed.

"What?"

The Scarecrow beamed. "The answer to your riddle!" he said. "Was I right?"

Shocked, the Riddler replied, "Yes, yes! That's it!"

Scarecrow smiled and sat up on the bunk. "What is white with a red nose, and the taller it stands, the shorter it grows?" he asked.

Pleased, the man who was once Edward Nigma thought a moment. Gleefully, he answered, "A candle! It's a candle!"

"Very good," said Scarecrow. He walked across the cell and into the light, sitting atop the small counter with a sink situated at its center. "I suppose I should introduce myself." Crane extended a hand. "I'm what's left of Dr. Jonathan Crane."

Mesmerized, Riddler took the pale, bony hand and shook it. "I'm E. Nigma. Riddler. You may call me by the latter." This was truly a strange occurrence. Scarecrow had barely spoken a word to him for two days, and now it was as if they were meeting for the first time. However, not all was right; Riddler suddenly realized that Crane's eyes kept darting to the corner by his bunk. He got up off the flattened mattress and stepped in front of his cellmate so as to obstruct his view of the corner.

"Did the Batman get you too?" the Riddler asked.

Scarecrow nodded. "H-he came to m-m-my facility and…" He suddenly dropped to his knees and scrabbled at his eyes. "No! Go away! Get out of my head! Why do you do this to me?" he shrieked.

Thoroughly confused, Riddler backed off and flopped down on his bed. He wished he hadn't brought up the Batman. He should have remembered how late the previous night he had overheard two doctors discussing his cellmate's mental state. They said he had severe PTSD, induced by the fear toxin that had eaten away at his mind and his treatment by the vigilante after the brilliant villain had dumped his signature concoction into Gotham City's water supply.

Also, Riddler had gleaned that Scarecrow—or Jonathan Crane, rather—was the original owner of Arkham Asylum. How ironic, he had thought. Riddler loved irony.

Not a minute later, two guards and a young, blond doctor raced up to the bars and opened the door. Riddler was about to get up, but one of the guards drew a pistol and aimed it at him threateningly. Nigma shrugged and rolled over, placing his green bowler over his head so as to block out the light streaming into the stone cell.

"Come on, Mr. Crane, calm down…" said the doctor softly. "I'm Dr. Wilson, and I'm here to help you, but I can't do that if you're on the ground. Please come with these men and me. We won't hurt you."

Just as quickly as they had come, the group left, banging the cell door unnecessarily on their way out. Riddler sighed. He had so wanted to tell his next riddle to Scarecrow. Seeing as there was no one around, he settled with telling it to himself.

"What walks on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three in the evening?" he said aloud into the void over his head.

"Oh, that's a tricky one," he replied in a slightly higher tone. "Hmm… let me see… ah! A human!"

"Exactly! For it crawls as a baby, then walks upright, and finally uses a cane in old age. You're quite good at this!"

"Why thank you!"

* * *

"Now, Jonathan—may I call you that?" asked Dr. Wilson, leaning back in his simple chair.

The Scarecrow nodded weakly. He was in quite an unpleasant state; his hair was a mess, falling on his tear-stained face. He had scratches near his cheekbones, either from his fingernails or from the rough stones of the floor. He laid on a comfortable chaise lounge, his arms folded.

"All right, then. Now, Jonathan, I am going to show you a series of inkblots. All I want you to do is tell me what you see. All right?

"Sure…" said the Scarecrow, forcing his eyes away from the corner where two walls and the ceiling met and at the first card.

"Is it a skyscraper?"

Wilson turned the paper over and looked at it. "It is if you think it is." Personally, he thought it was quite falic.

"Now, what do you see here?" he said, flipping over the second card.

"Some kind of tank?" Scarecrow said, unsure.

"Good… good…" Wilson commented, writing on a pad of paper. He put down his pen and held up the third and final inkblot. "What's this?"

"It's… it's…" said the patient, peering at the card. Suddenly, his eyes went wide with terror and he shrank away. "It's the Bat Signal!"

As soon as Dr. Wilson turned over the page, he cursed his stupidity. To him, the inkblot resembled a bowtie or a moth, but of course Crane would see Batman's logo. He cast the paper aside and hurried to the cabinet behind the desk while his patient began having an intense panic attack.

"Scarecrow!"

Instantly, the Arkham resident looked over to see the doctor approaching carefully, a ragged object in his hands: his mask. He reached out to receive it and thrust it over his head. Instantly, his body lost its rigidity and he sat up straight. Crossing his legs, the Scarecrow said, "Now, Dr. Wilson, you didn't think I wouldn't see through that little stunt, hm?" The voice was cool and sophisticated, leaving the psychiatrist stunned.

The Scarecrow rose. "Now, now, it's not polite to torment the patients. Their minds are so… unstable," he said mockingly, advancing on the dumbstruck man. "What's the matter?" he said, cocking his sack-covered head to one side. "Do I scare you?"

Before the doctor could react, his patient's hand darted out and snatched a letter opener from the desk. He was about to lash out with the slender silver blade when the door fell inward. Two armed guards charged in.

"Don't shoot him!" cried Wilson, finally coming back to Earth. He grabbed the fire extinguisher from under his desk and brought it down on the back of Scarecrow's head, knocking him unconscious.

* * *

"What can stop, what can fly, what goes on forever?" said the Riddler. It was the twelfth riddle he had asked himself since his cellmate had been dragged out, and he was still quite content with his little obsession.

"Time!"

"Good job! I thought that would be a toughie!"

The Riddler's conversation was interrupted by the door to the cell being swung wide. He leapt from his bunk with a start as Scarecrow was thrown head over heels onto the hard stone floor. The lock was secured promptly behind him.

"Well, look what the cat's dragged in! Would _you _like to hear my new riddle?"

"Uhnff…"

* * *

**AN—Thanks for reading! I would really like to hear what you have to say about my story, so please submit reviews! I know a lot of you wanted to see Crane in a more sane light, and I hope I've satisfied your wishes. Thanks again!**


	5. He's a Curious One

**__**

He's a Curious One

"Are you seeing this?" whispered Dr. Wilson.

"Yes, I am. This is… astounding!" replied Dr. Melbourne.

"Shh! Keep your voice down; they might hear us."

"Oh, sorry. I have personally observed Crane for several cumulative hours, but this is by far the sanest I've ever seen him!"

"Now, bear in mind that he does seem to fluctuate. It's like a roller coaster with this guy, you know?"

"No…" whispered Melbourne. "It's not like a roller coaster at all. You see, when a roller coaster drops, the proceeding hill will take it back up for another drop, but the next hill cannot be the same height as the prior, lest the train should slow too much and roll backward. Hence, each consecutive hill is smaller and smaller, until the track levels out and deposits the train at the station platform," the gray-haired doctor explained.

"Ah, but the Scarecrow is all over the place, going up and down at varying heights without any lessening of pace."

"Exactly!"

"That's fascinating, but tell me, sir, where did you learn so much about roller coasters?"

Melbourne smiled sheepishly. "When I was quite a lot younger than I am today, I worked at a theme park in Sandusky, Ohio."

"Really?"

"Shh! Listen, Crane's speaking!"

In 7-A, Riddler and Scarecrow were eating their lunches and exchanging riddles once more. "What darts very quickly in and out, has a sharp point?" asked the latter.

"Hm… very tricky, but your riddle is no match for my brilliant mind!" boasted the Riddler. "A needle!"

"Congratulations, Riddler. That took me a while to think up!" said Scarecrow.

"It appears as if his cellmate has cured him of his paranoia!" Wilson said triumphantly from around the corner.

"Not quite…"

"Huh?"

"Look!" whispered Dr. Melbourne. He cautiously led his younger colleague down the hall so that he could just get a glimpse of Jonathan Crane inside. He was seated on a light-colored stool, his sport coat draped over the sink and his shirtsleeves rolled up halfway to his elbows. He appeared sane enough, but he still occasionally looked off to the side for no apparent reason or jerked his shoulder up near his ear. However, Riddler didn't seem to pay this any mind and continued talking to him through these sporadic tics.

"Well, perhaps _that's _still there, but at least the psychosis appears to have gone away."

"Psychosis?" exclaimed Dr. Melbourne as the duo walked away down the hall. "What happened to PTSD?"

"I haven't thrown that out altogether, but I'm starting to think that maybe there's something deeper behind why he can't always distinguish between reality and his over stimulated imagination. It could be schizophrenia. I'll look into that."

"Well, I think you're on your way to solving this mystery. Now, about the other patient…"

"Ah, Riddler. I believe he's leading us to believe that he's mild-mannered and sophisticated, but I can't accept that he's perfectly right in the head. After all, the last time he was released for so-called 'good behavior,' he killed four people."

"What exactly _did _he do this time?" asked Melbourne as the doctors neared the lounge.

"He manufactured a bunch of Rubik's cubes and left them around Gotham. Mostly on park benches and on the front seats of police cruisers."

"Police cruisers?"

"That's where two of the deaths came from. You see, these puzzles, when solved, explode quite violently."

"So, if this nutcase wasn't… well, a nutcase, he'd be in on death row?"

"He'd be long dead. Commissioner Gordon has been contemplating ordering all of his personnel to shoot Riddler the next time they see him outside the confines of Arkham. However, Batman doesn't want him dead. I don't know why so don't ask me. What I do know is that it's our responsibility to analyze him and figure out why he does the things he does."

"Well, now that Scarecrow is doing a little better, I'll have more time to deal with Riddler one-on-one."

"You do that."

* * *

"Okay, I'm going to show you a series of inkblots, and I want you to tell me what you see," said Dr. Wilson, back in his cozy therapy room.

"Ooh, a puzzle!" cheered Riddler, sitting upright on the chaise lounge.

The psychiatrist was about to tell him to lay back, but decided against it. Instead, he just picked up the first card. "What do you see?"

"An inkblot," Riddler said flatly.

Wilson sighed. "Yes, but what do you _see _in the inkblot?"

"Hmm… blackness."

"Okay, so much for that," the doctor said, tossing his stack of papers aside and jotting down a few notes on his pad. Had he looked up, he would have seen the Riddler laughing silently to himself in glee.

"All right, just lay down on the couch, please."

He opened the drawer of his desk and withdrew a small vial filled with a green liquid. He hesitated, gazing at the label, which read, _Crane's Fear Toxin_. He had thought a lot about trying out a low dose of the Riddler's cellmate's special serum. He paused, staring at the vial, but suddenly had a change of heart. He inserted the small glass container into his lab coat pocket and shut the drawer.

"Now, Mr. Nigma, do you ever experience things that aren't exactly… real?"

"I believe you have me convinced with my dear friend Jon."

"Okay, so we can rule out schizophrenia. I have observed you frequently, and you do not seem the least bit paranoid. In fact, you almost seem…"

"Normal? Oh, you don't even know, doctor…"

Unsettled, Wilson tried another method. "Come with me, Nigma." The doctor led his patient into the adjacent room. There was a guard here, and it was pitch black. "Just walk around a moment, please," he instructed from the doorway, motioning for the guard to follow him out.

Riddler walked slowly to the center of the room and looked around. "Hello!" he shouted, creating an immensely entertaining echo. _Hello…ello…lo…lo...o…o…! _Suddenly, a large object fell in front of Riddler's face. He couldn't see what it was, but it didn't faze him the slightest.

In the therapy room, the guard spoke with the doctor. "Well, there's no screaming, so you can rule out those strange freak outs of the last guy."

"Indeed, the Riddler isn't paranoid. He's just…" the doctor trailed off.

"So what's going on in there?" asked the guard, changing the subject.

"Oh, I'm testing his mental state under stress and confusion by dropping stuffed dummies all around him in the dark."

"Interesting. You know, sometimes I wish I was a psychoanalyst."'

"Believe me, it's not all that it's cut out to be…" sighed Dr. Wilson. "Come on, time's up." With that, the two men walked to the door. Wilson turned on the light from an exterior switch, and the guard opened the heavy door slowly and carefully.

"Whoa!" he exclaimed.

"What is it?" cried Wilson, running up. "Wow…" he breathed, gazing upon the room.

"Welcome back, doctor," said the Riddler. "I thought you'd forgotten about me in here." He was sitting cross-legged in the middle of a vast sea of torn-out fluff and mangled dummies.

* * *

**AN—Thanks for reading. I would love to find out what you think so far, so please submit reviews!**


	6. A Golden Opportunity

**A Golden Opportunity**

"How did he do that?" fumed Dr. Wilson to his friend, Dr. Sandra Dale.

"I don't know…" she replied, thinking over the matter. "That's very strange though. Usually a patient with violent tendencies seems unstable more often. It appears as if the Riddler can control this so that he appears to be suave and amiable, but suddenly becomes a raving killer."

"Perhaps it's just his mind set. He's a murderer deep inside that false, calm façade."

"And then there's his interaction with the Scarecrow. That's quite peculiar."

"Indeed. However, bear in mind certain things seem to soothe Crane's scrambled mind. You know, like his favorite color and such. The Riddler is very confident and charming; he probably empowers his cellmate."

"That's a good observation."

"So," sighed Wilson, "tell me about your patient."

"Oh, Clayface?" replied Dale as if the name was a foul taste on the tip of her tounge. "That man would be easier to deal with if he actually remembered anything he did when he was turned into a monster," she explained, shaking her head. This caused her long brown ponytail to sweep back and forth gently and gracefully. Suddenly, she stopped, placed a hand on the door to her right as if about to push it open, and paused. She turned back and said, "Bye" giving a slight wave as she walked into a small room where her patient was being treated.

"Bye," replied Wilson. He continued down the hallway. Suddenly, he realized that he was heading near 7-A. This was unintentional, and he really didn't want to deal with Riddler and Scarecrow at the moment, so he turned on his heel and started back for the doctors' lounge.

"Ah, Wilson, just the man I was looking for!" said Dr. Melbourne, coming around the corner.

"What is it, sir?" asked Wilson, concerned.

"Look, the Joker's been rambling about one of your patients. He's furious with the Riddler because he thinks he's a copycat."

"Really? Hm… that could explain some of Riddler's behavior… mimicry… I hadn't thought of that…"

"Look, I was just thinking that maybe you could talk to your patient about the matter, see if he's ever run into the Joker before or something," suggested Melbourne.

"Oh yeah, sure," replied Wilson. "I'll get to that this afternoon."

"Thanks. It will help a—" the relieved doctor began, but he was cut off by a shout from behind him.

"Doctor Melbourne! Doctor Melbourne!" cried a guard, running frantically.

"What is it?"

"I-it's the Joker! He's trying to get loose!" explained the man, breathing heavily. Melbourne hurried off down the hall, and the guard reluctantly followed, drawing his handgun.

"I'll join you!" called Dr. Wilson, running after his mentor. They went down the A block, where Riddler and Scarecrow were listening to the shouts.

"What do you suppose is going on?" asked Riddler. He was standing very close to the front wall, his hands gripping the chipped, grimy bars.

"I don't know," mumbled Scarecrow. He had started a descent into his dark, fearful state once again, perched atop his bunk with his shoulders hunched. He shook his head vigorously a couple of times and suddenly jerked, startled by seeing the sink out of the corner of his eye.

Dreading having to revert to telling himself riddles to avoid loosing his mind for the next few days, Riddler groaned and tried to fit his face through one of the rectangular holes in the metal lattice to see who was running down the corridor.

To the patient's surprise, it was Dr. Wilson, the old one, and a rather unfit guard. He watched them curiously as they rushed down toward the D block. Suddenly, his kleptomaniac eye caught a glint from the younger doctor's lab coat pocket. The object fell to the floor with a soft tinkling sound. The men outside did not notice; they continued on their brisk jog.

Smiling wickedly, the Riddler laid flat on the cracked stone floor and reached stuck his arm through the gap under the iron gate. His fingers fumbled on the side of the cylindrical object, but finally he managed to roll it into his palm and slip his arm back into the dark cell.

"What do you suppose this is?" asked Riddler, trying to make out the label on the glass tube. It was a very tiny container, only about seven centimeters long and filled with a pale green liquid.

With awe, Riddler deciphered what was scrawled on the strip of masking tape on the vial's side. "Dr. Crane's Fear Toxin…" His face split into a terrible smile and he turned to look at his cellmate.

A few minutes later, a guard was pacing about in the intersection of two hallways. He was thoroughly bored. Suddenly, there was a shout from nearby. "Help! Guards! Someone help him! He's gone mad! Someone help!"

The guard sprinted for the source of the commotion. When he reached Block A, he slowed down, looking into each cell. "Hey, over here! Come quick!" shouted the patient again.

The guard turned and hurried over to 7-A. He walked right up to the bars and asked the Riddler, who was very close to the door also, "What's going on? What's happening?" His eyes darted to where Scarecrow was lying on the floor, convulsing and twisting about violently.

"Nighty-night," Riddler murmured menacingly. He held up his hand, with the vial clutched in it, and pressed down on a switch behind the nozzle. A fine mist, almost like a gas cloud, erupted from the container and into the guard' face. He coughed and abruptly inhaled.

There was a brief silence, then the man began screaming incessantly, cowering and covering his face. "Aaaaah!" he screeched. "Get away! Get away from me, little beasts! Aaaaah! No! Nooooo!"

"I'll just take those if you don't mind," said the Riddler, slipping a hand through the bars and swiping the howling guard's keys. He twisted his wrist around and unlocked the door. It swung open and he stepped out. "You coming or what?" he called into the darkness. Scarecrow, who had been faking his seizure the whole time, got to his feet and, looking around nervously, followed the only friend he had ever known.

Riddler snatched the guard's pistol from its holster as he passed, leaving the man to scream and flee from invisible tormentors.

"Hey, what are you doing out of your cell?" shouted Dr. Wilson, coming back down the hall. He looked quite shocked.

Without hesitation, Riddler turned to face the doctor and fired the gun. A large splat of blood appeared on the wall behind the psychologist and he dropped to the ground, a bullet through his forehead.

The two escapees ducked inside the therapy room across the hall. "Wait here," the Riddler commanded, going behind the doctor's desk. He searched through the drawers for a moment, and then tried the filing cabinet. To his pleasure, he found what he was looking for. "Are you ready to be back on top?" he asked, holding the Scarecrow's mask aloft.

* * *

**AN—Thank you very much for reading. If you weren't aware, Dr. Dale's patient was the one that reviewers asked for. Know one thing though: this isn't over. It's just the beginning!**


	7. On the Run

**_On the Run_**

"What do you mean _escaped_?" roared Commissioner Gordon.

"I'm sorry, sir, but that's what the guards at Arkham said," replied the cop who had brought Gordon the bad news.

"This is unbelievable!" the commissioner exclaimed, hunting through his desk drawers for the records of Jon Crane and Edward Nigma. "Not one, but _two _loonies out wreaking havoc all over Gotham City."

"Well, sir, they haven't been sighted in the inner city yet," corrected the officer.

"That's good, at least," Gordon muttered. "Now, where was it that they first struck—no, no! Don't tell, me! _Show _me!" With that, the commissioner got up out of his office chair, grabbed his _Gotham City Police Department_-emblazoned jacket and swung it on.

* * *

"This is the place, boss," said the cop, leaving Gordon to have a look. The place was a small house down by the river leading into Gotham Bay. It was a pretty secluded place, a little too near to Arkham's gates than Gordon would have liked if he were a homebuyer.

There were trees on two sides of the yard; the others were the bank of the river and the prairie from which the two convicts had apparently come. Gordon strolled downhill toward the storage shed where a Crime Scene Investigator was taking photographs.

"All right, tell me what happened," said the commissioner, looking around. There was a short, weathered dock a few meters to his left. There were a few coils of line sitting on its grayed planks, but no boat was moored there.

"We think the Riddler and Scarecrow came up this hill," the CSI said, tracing the route with a latex-gloved finger. "Then, Riddler seems to have shot the lock off this shed. The shot must have aroused the attention of the homeowner, Peter Bari."

"Well, where is he now?"

The man nonchalantly pointed to a spot a little ways across the yard. "He's over there."

"Okay, so why did they break into the shed?" Gordon asked.

"Ah, well, according to Arkham, the Riddler left with a gun, but Scarecrow was unarmed. There seems to have been something hanging on the back wall, don't you think?" suggested the CSI, pointing inside the dark interior of the shack.

Gordon stepped inside and clicked on his flashlight. Sure enough, two pegs were embedded in the opposite wall, separated by a long distance. It was apparent that a large tool had previously been hanging there.

"The victim's daughter says there used to be a scythe in here," offered the CSI, leaning in to have a peek at the shed.

"Argh!" the commissioner fumed. A scythe was always the Scarecrow's weapon of choice. He paced in a slow circle then turned back to the man taking photos. "Who is this daughter you spoke of?"

"Oh, she's the one who discovered the crime scene. She checks in on her father from time to time."

"Where is she now?" Gordon inquired, leaving the shed and heading for the body.

"Uh… she's being interviewed up by the house."

"Thanks," Gordon grunted. He walked over to where a forensics team was surrounding the body of Peter Bari. "So how'd this guy die?" he asked as he approached.

"Well, see for yourself," replied a woman labeling a zipped plastic bag with a black permanent marker.

Gordon looked down and grunted thoughtfully. "Where's the head?" he asked, looking up from the gruesome corpse.

"Over there," said the woman without looking up, motioning with her marker.

* * *

"This is the life!" sighed Riddler, folding his arms behind his head and leaning back in the old man's aluminum boat. The Scarecrow and he had been going down the river for quite some time now.

"I just wish I had more of my serum," complained Scarecrow. He was seated at the front, with his scythe propped up against his shoulder. He reached up and shifted the position of his burlap mask. "So what's the plan?"

"Well," said the Riddler, looking left then right furtively, "What we want to do is draw out our mutual enemy, correct?"

"Of course."

"I was thinking we should split up, and if one of us encounters the Batman, we should try to lure him into a special spot I've picked out."

"What is this 'special spot'?" asked Scarecrow, intrigued.

"It's a warehouse on 42nd and Paige. Can't miss it; it's a big brick building, no windows untill you get to the upper levels. Unless some goodie-two-shoes has been making the rounds with soap and water, there will be a large question mark spray-painted on the eastern wall."

"Got it," confirmed Scarecrow.

"Well, I'll be seeing you, then," Riddler said, tilting the handle on the motor so that the boat glided gracefully in toward the riverbank.

Scarecrow rose and hopped out into the shallows then reached back in and grabbed his scythe. With a brief salute, the masked man set off uphill toward the outskirts of Gotham City.

Riddler quickly sped off in the boat. Of course, he would go directly to the heart of the city, conveniently placing himself nearer to the warehouse than his companion. If anyone was going to kill the Batman, it would be _him_, not that raving lunatic who clung to a raggedy piece of burlap like a child to a security blanket. However, another, more sinister, idea drifted into his mind. Perhaps his trip into Gotham would be a little shorter than he had first planned...

* * *

**AN— Thanks for reading, and please review!**


	8. Getting Attention

**_Getting Attention_**

"What are you? Get away from me! Aah!" screamed the woman, backing into the guardrail on the bridge and dropping her handbag. The scythe dropped near her nose and she covered her face in fright.

"Humph. You're lucky," came the voice from the misshapen burlap face. "That was a relatively low dose of Fear Toxin I gave you." With that, the Scarecrow shouldered his farm tool and grabbed the woman in his arms.

The man ran, his victim hanging defenseless. She continued to scream and scrabble at her eyes as if trying to wipe away unseen horrors. She was also babbling nonsensically about several attackers, but Jon Crane knew exactly what was happening. She was feeling like he had for several months.

However, the madman knew that his quarry's symptoms would soon fade away, and she would be back to normal eventually. He, on the other hand, could not escape his psychosis. That is, until he had his mask on.

Scarecrow did not know why this raggedy disguise quieted his over-stimulated nerves and restored him to his rightful glory. He had thought long about it, down in that dark, cold cell in Arkham. He just couldn't quite place his finger on what caused this. Doubtless, the doctors had come up with some so-called 'logical' explanation. However, Crane's specialty was not logic. He dealt in the study of fear, a totally illogical and irrational emotion in his opinion.

Speaking of which, he had big plans for this hostage. He would bring her down to the warehouse Riddler had specified. There, he would try to concoct a new serum to test on her; maybe one with more lasting effects.

Delighted in his deviousness, Scarecrow raced off into the night, the young lady slung under his arm and the shaft of the scythe banging against the backs of his legs.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the inner city, Riddler was piloting the stolen boat into Gotham Bay. He cursed the quietness of the outboard motor, wanting to arouse more attention. However, he suddenly got a devious idea and continued past the dock he was about to exit onto. Instead, he made for the covered dock where the police boats were moored.

* * *

"Argh!" Scarecrow grumbled. He couldn't figure out where that warehouse was, and it was annoying him greatly. He kept getting disoriented, because of having to hide from passing police cruisers and struggling with his captive.

Dejected and furious with his companion for giving him poor directions, Scarecrow sat on a bench and looked up at the clouded night sky. He suddenly didn't care about revenge. He wanted to be free… to see the sky and breathe fresh air. However, he knew that he couldn't have one without the other. Jon Crane could never be free. The only way he could truly enjoy the world around him was to be Scarecrow. It was with this revelation that that malicious question came to mind: Who was stopping him?

And he knew. It was Batman.

Suddenly, a shaft of light shot up from a tall building far off. Scarecrow looked up to see that the bat signal was hovering over Gotham City. If he was not in character, he would have been reduced to a pathetic, bawling heap, but he was not the former doctor cursed with a crippling psychosis; he was Scarecrow, a powerful and menacing killer.

Something was wrong, though. Scarecrow looked up again and, to his surprise, the symbol on the clouds above was not a bat. It was a question mark. At first, Scarecrow didn't understand what the Riddler was up to; then he got it. The insignia swiveled a bit before resting over a squatty brick building. The warehouse!

Pleased by his partner's cleverness, Scarecrow hauled his screaming victim to her feet and dragged her toward their destination…

* * *

"Riddler!" called the gruff, false voice from a dark figure perched on the water tower of the Gotham police station. Batman leaped out into the darkness and dropped to the roof below. He stalked over to the searchlight and saw what was making the question mark. The bat sign had been ripped off, and in its place was a dead police officer, his body twisted into the main part of the emblem. The dot underneath was formed by a hubcap.

"Where are you?" Batman growled into the shadows.

"He's not here."

The vigilante whirled around to see that Commissioner Gordon had walked up behind him from the staircase.

"Where did he go?" asked Batman.

"Take a look at the searchlight," Gordon suggested.

Batman turned back to the sky and followed the beam of light. He found the insignia on the underside of a huge black cloud. Gazing downward, he found the location of his foe: a large brick warehouse. "Thanks," he grunted. With that, he dove over the edge of the building and glided toward the warehouse.

* * *

"Now, now, please calm down," said Scarecrow. He was trying to sound calming, but he could not hide his excitement. Soon, he would be rid of this nuisance and have his revenge on the man who ruined his life.

"Let her go," said a stern voice.

Scarecrow grabbed his scythe and looked up into the rafters. "Well, _bat_, why don't you come down here and make me?" he taunted. This was bringing him great pleasure.

Suddenly, the hero did what was asked. He descended from the shadows above and landed with a flying kick at his opponent's chest. Scarecrow flew back and toppled over the chair his victim was bound to.

Batman got to his feet and quickly severed the ropes around the girl's wrists and ankles. "Get out of here!" he commanded sharply, and she didn't hesitate to flee out the open door.

"Aww!" Scarecrow whined mockingly. "I wasn't going to hurt her. It was just a little fear experiment."

"Wait a minute!" exclaimed Batman, slipping momentarily out of his adopted guttural voice into that of Bruce Wayne. "You're not Riddler!"

"Thank you for noticing," replied Scarecrow, advancing with his scythe held menacingly. "My colleague should be on his way," he added.

"Well, then…" said Batman, trying to retrieve his imposingness. "I suppose I'll just have to deal with you before he arrives." Suddenly, the vigilante leapt at Scarecrow. When the villain swiped his blade at him, he dropped into a roll, made it under the lethal blow, and lashed out with a mighty punch.

Scarecrow stumbled, but managed to grab the Fear Toxin vial from his belt and spray the noxious fumes into his enemy's face. Batman was ready for this tactic ever since he realized the man in the warehouse was Jon Crane. He drew the antidote from his own belt and rapidly stabbed the needle into the gap between the armor on his forearm and bicep. He injected the contents just as he began to see worms and insects crawl out of the Scarecrow's mask and the room spinning under his feet.

Restoring his normal vision, Batman performed a roundhouse kick that clocked Scarecrow on the side of the head. The madman cried out and slammed into the wall. He dropped to his hands and knees, shaking his head vigorously to clear the ringing in his ears.

Batman didn't give him the chance; he drove his knee into the foe's face, sending him sprawling onto the concrete floor. Blood began to spread over the burlap on the man's face.

Coughing, the Scarecrow tried to grab his scythe, which he had dropped when he was kicked. However, Batman launched himself onto his enemy and grabbed him in a potent chokehold. Then, he grabbed a pair of handcuffs from his utility belt and manacled the defeated criminal.

"P-please! Don't do it!" Scarecrow shrieked, contorting his body in a vain attempt to extricate himself from Batman's grip. Suddenly, the mask was cast from his face. Jon Crane cried out as if he had been hit by a semi. He covered his face and began to breath rapidly. "NOOOOOOO! I WON'T GO BACK THERE! NOOOO!" he screamed.

"It's better than where you'll eventually end up," commented Batman, hauling his captive to his feet. The unmasked Crane struggled to stand, continuously slipping from consciousness and falling hard on his knees. Batman gave him no sympathy, though, and each time, he simply forced the insane man up and shoved him along toward the exit.

Finally, Crane collapsed onto the pavement in the alley outside. "Please! I can't go on!" he pleaded. Blood and tears mingled on his face, contorting it into a pinkish mass. "Please…" he mumbled softly, rolling over and shuttering violently. "I can't… I can't…"

"Where's Riddler?" Batman bellowed.

"How should I know?" Crane suddenly shouted. "That double-crosser is probably long gone by now!"

And indeed he was. The Riddler had no intention of hanging around in Gotham city. After sneaking through the police dock, strangling a cop, and rigging the searchlight, he stowed away on a cargo ship leaving Gotham Bay. He really was a cruel, terrible person. He was the only friend Jon Crane had ever known, and he had set him up to be captured after realizing that he was no longer an asset to his plans. Maybe that was what was wrong with him. He didn't have two personalities like the late Dr. Wilson had diagnosed. He had one evil, calculating mindset that he was very good at hiding.

* * *

Batman waited in that warehouse all night, hoping that Scarecrow hadn't lied. He couldn't give up, lest Riddler really did show up at the specified meeting place.

Finally, when the police arrived to cart Crane off to Arkham, Commissioner Gordon climbed one of the towering ladders and sat beside Batman amidst the rafters. "You know he's not coming," he said eventually.

"I can't accept that I've let him slip through my fingers," Batman replied curtly.

"You'll get him next time," said Gordon with a sigh. He looked out a nearby window to where Jon Crane was being dragged into an Arkham wagon. "He's a curious one," Gordon remarked. "I just don't understand him."

"He's insane," grunted Batman. "He can't be understood."

"Can anyone understand you?"

The vigilante was silent for a long time. Finally, he responded, "I do what I know I must, and you do the same. The Scarecrow and the Riddler are unpredictable. They couldn't even trust each other."

Gordon nodded and looked back out the window. The prison guards finally managed to get the screaming, resisting lunatic inside the wagon and slam the door shut behind him. "You know—" the commissioner began, turning around again, but the Batman was nowhere to be seen. Gordon smiled and sighed heavily. Same old Batman.

**THE**

**END**

****

Well, I dearly hope you enjoyed my story! This was my first Batman Fanfic, and it was a lot of fun to write. I'd love to hear your final comments, and possible suggestions for future projects in this genre. Once again, I'd like to thank everyone who read and reviewed.

—**The Hutt**


End file.
